The Will of the God of Music

by P. H. Low

You hear the door open as if in dreaming.

Back when you were a conservatory student, you chewed a third of a melatonin tablet every night — to keep yourself from snapping awake before sunup, chest tight, your head still achy with exhaustion. Now, mornings are difficult: your eyelids weighted, sliding; thick grey wool between your temples. Your body drifting in a warm, slow sea.

Evan’s voice. “Rach?”

A groan, from deep inside you. You do not want wakefulness — do not want the heat pulsing from your knuckles, a beacon, a warning; do not want your boyfriend watching, wary, as you massage the meat of your thumb. Too late — slow electric fear coils in your stomach. Your breath draws short as you open your eyes.

“What is it?” Your performer’s voice — clipped, a little haughty, though it still creaks from sleep. (Continue Reading…)

The Troll Road

by Tony Dunnell

Sir Lederick dismounted in the Humble Woods on the southern flank of the Hopewine Valley. Here, on the boundary between the king’s realm and the Trollands, the Troll Road began. The ancient road had long offered the only viable route east, and the footfalls of man and horse once thundered along its path. Now, silence. An uneasy silence, if belligerent councillors were to be believed. They used the threat of a troll invasion to stoke fear and distrust among the populace, their whispers never far from the young king’s ear. As for the trolls, they were content with the treaty. The Long War was over, half a century had passed, and, being isolationists by nature, the trolls had embraced a policy of exclusion toward their cantankerous neighbours to the west. Two realms divided, but now the king of men, keen of mind and wise beyond his years, sought a conversation.

“Wait here, Tammy,” said Sir Lederick, stroking the muzzle of his chestnut steed.

The horse snorted and pawed at the ground. Not even a mount as gallant as Tamaleen enjoyed the smell of a troll. And it was a sleeping troll, a fully-grown male, that now blocked access to the road east. He lay snoring, stretched out, his massive head resting on the upper bank, his body obstructing the road. He was naked save for a simple sackcloth around his waist. His skin was a muddy, blotchy brown. (Continue Reading…)

Gray Skies, Red Wings, Blue Lips, Black Hearts

by Merc Fenn Wolfmoor

A girl has lost her soul down deep in the City. It wandered away while she chipped out another grave in the catacomb brickyards. She set down her pickax, wiped grit from her cheek, and noticed how empty her body was. Looked down at her wrist and found it blank.

That’s what she tells Redcap Kestrel as she sits cross-legged on the abandoned warehouse floor, well away from the grimy windows. The girl who lost her soul doesn’t offer a name. Few people do in the City.

“You want me to find it?” Redcap Kestrel asks. She crouches at a right angle to the girl, not looking her in the face. It’s for the girl’s sake. No one likes to look at a half-alive thing for too long, lest you find yourself on the wrong side of dead. (Continue Reading…)

The Inheritance

by C. T. Muchemwa

Taona did not shed a single tear when his baba died. Not when he heard the news. Not when he greeted his father’s wife and she wailed at the sight of his face. Not even when they lowered his father’s shiny black casket into the grave and his sea of half-sisters wept.

Those who watched him at the funeral would say that Taona stood like a man. But he really stood as an only son whose father had never recognised him because his mother refused to be a mistress. She was holding out to be a second wife. A lot of good that had done her. She lived in poverty while her competition enjoyed the benefits of being the girlfriends of one of the richest men in Harare. So, no, Taona had not cried.

But now, standing outside Baba’s lawyers’ offices, a solitary tear formed in Taona’s right eye, and gently rolled down his cheek, a perfect drop burgeoning with feelings of absolute joy. For he was now holding the keys to a second-hand Honda Fit. It wasn’t new, but it was his. His inheritance. The bespectacled old man standing next to him told Taona the message his baba had left for him.

“Your father said this car will make a man of you,” the lawyer said. “It’s the kind of gift that forces you to decide who you want to be. Choose wisely.” (Continue Reading…)